Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(28)

The scent of smoke billowed from the entrance, which rose in a graceful arc ten times Hristo’s height. Like most of the bigger species, Lex had made the cave by blasting flame into a cliff face, hot enough to melt the very stone into hot rock.

It wasn’t a fast process. Normal dragon fire didn’t reliably liquefy rock, but they could eat dragonroot to manipulate their second lungs into producing a hotter fire. Much hotter. But it was an unhealthy diet to maintain, so they saved it for special occasions. Like creating living accommodations.

It had taken Lex three years to build this cave. She’d chosen a good spot, too, carving into a protrusion of rock that allowed a curved entrance so the wind wouldn’t zip in and disturb her in the deeper caverns.

Ripples of obsidian and basalt flowed down the sides of the opening and down the hill, almost concealed now by the moss, vines, and ferns that had crept back over the years.

LaLa climbed up my arm and perched on my shoulder, making herself small against the curve of my neck. Crystal had taken a similar position on Ilina as my friend whistled for Lex to come out.

“It’s all right.” I petted the soft membrane of LaLa’s golden wing. All the sanctuary dragons knew not to hunt the smaller species, but thousands of years of instinct didn’t just vanish because they lived in the same place now. Dragons—big dragons—were very territorial.

We waited for the low rumble and scrape of scales on stone, but no sound came from the cave.

The three of us exchanged worried glances. Astrid going missing was one thing. She might have been out hunting, or avoiding a rockslide, or perhaps there wasn’t enough prey in her territory anymore. She might have left the sanctuary, as unlikely as that seemed; the wall afforded them safety from poachers and thoughtless humans.

But Lex, too? They were on opposite sides of the sanctuary.

“Maybe she left because of the earthquake, too?” But even I didn’t believe it.

Hristo didn’t take his eyes off the cave opening. “Wouldn’t she be back by now?”

“Probably.”

We were all quiet for a few minutes, listening to the wind in the trees and the twitter of birds. This peace was an illusion. Something was very wrong here.

Ilina took a single, decisive step toward the opening. “All right. We’re going in.”





CHAPTER NINE




WHEN THE SCREAMING FADED INTO DESPERATE whimpers, Aaru leaned toward our tiny window again. “That one is Hurrok. From Bopha, I think.”

“He’s scared of the dark?”

“Must be. Aren’t you afraid?”

“I don’t like the dark.” The disorientation. The uncertainty. The feeling of isolation. But Aaru’s quiet voice felt like an anchor.

“Sisters are afraid of storms,” he said. “Alya most of all.”

I wished for a storm now, something to break up this darkness. I’d listen to the thunder, the rain, the wind hissing through the trees. We had wonderful storms in Crescent Prominence. Storms that set wind chimes clanging and palm trees whipping and my mind soaring with possibility. Dragons loved storms like that, because the crackle of electricity in the air ignited the spark gland at the roof of their mouths; they enjoyed it the same way cats enjoyed getting their ears scratched.

Here, we had only darkness.

“Do you help Alya when she’s scared?”

Aaru gave a soft, affirming sound. “Of course. I tell her stories.”

“What kind?” My voice trembled.

“Listen.” He began to tap, but I couldn’t keep up. Knowing what I wanted to say and understanding what he was saying—those were two different skills.

Still, I counted the beats, and the rhythm helped push back the penetrating night. Even though I couldn’t understand what he was saying, I knew there were words in there. A story meant for me.

IT GREW INTO a routine.

My mind dutifully tracked every step I took, and I began to get a better idea of the Pit as I cleaned my way through hallways (footprints, sometimes blood), interrogation rooms (always blood, often vomit), and a space that might have been for recreation for the second-or third-level prisoners. There, I dusted tables, picked up tattered books, and scrubbed blood off a punching bag.

By cell-cleaning day, I was far better at using the mop and bucket when they made it to my space. I scrubbed as best I could, considering the dirty water, and emptied the bucket into my sewage hole to clear away some of the smell.

Then I waited, listening to the other prisoners leave and return, until a guard approached Gerel’s cell. She slid off her bed and followed him—and no one came to get me.

Another decan without a bath? I’d been able to wash up here and there, thanks to working, but there was no substitution for a real bath. Not that I expected citrus and honey soap, or soft towels, or coconut milk for my hair. But I’d have liked the chance to wash more than my face and arms.

Gerel came back and took her second food for the day, not bothering to look at me as I sat on my bench, puddling into a filthy smear of despair. This wasn’t fair. Not at all.

Then, Altan stepped in front of my cell. “Ready for a bath, Fancy?”

I jumped to my feet, pathetically excited.

“Bring your laundry.”

I tucked my pillow and blanket under one arm and stepped out. But instead of turning right like we usually did—toward the mess hall—Altan motioned me left, which took me past the other prisoners.